


Blackthorn Trees

by inhighheels (consumedly)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banshee Lydia Martin, Celtic Mythology Freeform, F/F, Implied Violence, Mail Order Brides, implied minor character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 06:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumedly/pseuds/inhighheels
Summary: She was scared, and lonely, and frustrated, but she had to go away; no one could know there was a banshee in the Martin’s clan. They were humans, trough and trough.





	Blackthorn Trees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shopfront](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shopfront/gifts).

> Hello Shopfront I hope you'll like your gift.  
Your prompts did make my head spin and I started several fics at the same time.  
Don't tell the others, but this one is my favorite. I hope you'll like it.

Traveling around the country isn’t easy; especially as a single banshee without protection and a lot of centuries old forests, mountains and deep lakes in between the start and ending point of her journey. She might have been the first banshee in the Martin’s clan for the last 50 years or so, but she wasn’t stupid.

She has traded some and bargained a lot, but she managed to secure a couple of grimoires. One of them was full of defense spells and incantations, which made sense after Lydia learned how often witches disappeared without a trace.

She made a couple of talismans; one was wrought of hair, her own and her mother’s and her grandmother’s hair; her mother’s tears and her own blood connected the thin snopes. She wore it in a silver pendant above her heart. There was another, a bracelet on her foot; it was forged of gold and had a couple of her dog’s teeth as a focal point. There were pouches allover her and her luggage, which wasn’t much, but had everything Lydia would need in her day to day live.

She was scared, and lonely, and frustrated, but she had to go away; no one could know there was a banshee in the Martin’s clan. They were humans, trough and trough, or so they thought. Sometimes Lydia thought that she might be a changeling, other times she remembered her grandmother and how she abruptly went away when she was 6 years old.

******

It wasn’t in and on itself a novelty, but Lydia was now afraid to open  _ the paper _ fo the first time. It was one of those, one of the proper family papers. It had a lot of everyday tips for running a household and a couple more articles with unnecessary free advices for new housewives, expectant and young mothers. There were always more than a couple articles besmirching certain practises and most of them were focusing on interspecies marriage. We should stick to our own kind was paraphrased as many times as the authors and editors could manage.

The last two pages were what she was interested in. They were full of short telegram style letters, separated on species of course, written from people in search of a husband, a wife or a pack to live with or marry into. Those were the pages she has laughed over and mocked relentlessly with her girlfriends. Those were the pages she pored over this time around. Because no matter how much you wish it to, sometimes life does not turn the way you want it.

It had to be a pack, however not any pack would do in her case. She needed to get away, far far away from the people who took her gran and would not hesitate to kidnap and take her, possibly apart for her hair, skin and teeth. She was an expensive commodity. As it had turned out banshee teeth had the strength to prolong life, or rather misdirect the fates for a couple more weeks or months; it depended solely on the strength of the banshee.

And she was strong, she knew that. Lydia has been awakened from the slaughter of a pack in Blackly. She was the sole witness and had made sure to send a letter to the council the moment she had known her dream was anything but one. Every killer she could she identified and every passing she could she assisted to the best of her abilities, in the so far longest week of her life.

When the hunters were executed she did not wail for them. They could find their own way to the other side.

******

The journey was long and tedious; the people riding alongside her were anything from minors to doctors to people she would not like to meet in a dark alley.

Arriving in Beacon Hills after months of being on the road was bittersweet and full of promises. As was Beacon Hills Inn, but she has taken precaution; there was a rune on each exit and couple more on the bed; salt and ash were poured along every wall, crevice and a way in she could find. Lydia went to sleep the moment her head touched the pillow and dreamt of nothing.

What she was not was being prepared to meet Alpha Hale; no matter their brief correspondence, and shared interests in keeping her alive for the moment, she wasn’t what Lydia has imagined for an alpha to be. Thalia was strong and confident, but also cruel and calculating towards the supposed witch who has crossed the country to get here.

“I can not turn you Ms. Martin. As I suppose you already know being immune comes with few advantages and a couple more, let’s call them issues. You can not be turned; you can not swear obedience because of your fae blood and most important of all I can not trust you with anything but a full bond.”

Lydia took a sip of coffee and smiled leaning back in her decidedly uncomfortable chair. “However, you do have an offer in mind.”

The alpha’s idea was of course to be expected. “Marry a blood member of my pack, blood from my blood. They will not cross that line.”

There was Peter, her brother, her left hand. The one who died and came back because the other side was not fun enough; not  _ red _ enough for him. There was no way for this to work, she might be a banshee, but being constantly surrounded by death did lose its appeal pretty quick.

They were a stable, maybe even big enough pack to hide amongst she had though; they had a reputation of keeping themselves and their own safe enough. They had a kitsune, a nemeton; they now have a banshee.

A banshee who has bound herself to them for the next year at least. A year and a day the druid had said, a year and a day.

“So you are the banshee.” Were the first words she heard from her wife’s pretty lips. And then “You know why she married you of to me, right?” Cora smiled and slung one of Lydia’s bags over her shoulder; she took the other two, and they walked the short distance to their cottage. Or a hovel, it looked more like a hovel to her. “I don’t like people; I don’t socialize and only go to town when it can’t be avoided.”

The pretty wolf was saying it like it is a bad thing. Maybe she’s not aware of the problem here. Lydia would have to think, does she inform her partner in crime or does she pretend she’s the pretty helpless damsel in distress everyone’s trying to get advantage off of.

There was only one bed. _One bed._ “I suppose we will have to share the bed.” The wolf, her wife answered with as much politeness as she could muster, no it was definitely less. She didn’t even try to pretend.

“If you don’t want to die in the winter I suggest you leave the shame with your coat right next to the door on your way in. We might not be in Alaska, but we’re pretty high up and the snowstorms are not rare here.”

Right, snowstorms; her brand new alpha has warned her, she had everything she would need except another body to produce heat. Or rather she did not have it half an hour ago, now there was a wife-heather taking her shoes of and making herself comfortable on one of the two chairs next to the table.

“We have to talk wifey and don’t think your pretty red hair or your black eyes might fool me for a minute. The household chores are all yours. I bring the meat you cook it.”

Black eyes, she did not have black eyes. Lydia brought her hand down and looked at Cora. She was trying to make her uncomfortable; having the stronger position, dictating the rules. She was trying to browbeat her not even an hour after their handfasting. Lydia squared her shoulders and took a step towards her partner, this would not do.

******

Life as a Hale was rather dull after a while, she had not expected that. One of the things she knew about beforehand though was the extensive library she now had access to. Witches, wendigos, minotaurs, they were all there.

She now knew how to harvest her ingredients ensuring their potency. She also knew how to sacrifice a stag for the optimum gain from _the other_s. Also, their house was now so heavily warded that no one could walk in without first being led in by one them.

It was a long-standing not-fight between them on who got to enter their hovel. However, Lydia gave in first admitting she might have been a tad unreasonable, they were on Hale land after all, and invited everyone from Cora's immediate family. The only standing exception being Peter, she was not giving him access to their house. No matter how pretty his eyes were, or the way Cora assured her she was his favorite. He was death, he was not getting in.

******

The first thing that disappeared between them were the inches separating them in bed. The winter was cold, the storms harsh and Cora’s body was in fact a godsent heater in the dead of the night when the fire went out.

After the first couple of mornings, Lydia aptly named  _ Oh shit where is my hand? Why is your leg there? _ and the wall of pillows and stack of blankets strategically placed between them she had rather ungracefully accepted that no she did not want to wake up to the sound of her own teeth chattering. And that maybe her partner wasn’t so bad to sleep next to after all.

Cora was surprisingly soft for a werewolf. Her skin smelt of mint and her behind was  _ so firm  _ when Lydia managed to out-big-spoon her.

Then it was the turn of the words. Just because their were married, shared a house and slept in the same bed it did not mean they were together; it did not mean they could work. Except they did.

It was in the late nights and early mornings when decidedly not cuddled they started talking. It started with  _ Did you find that creek? Was there a nymph there? How much silver do you think we’ll need to give if it gets bad? _

And continued with  _ There was a boy living down the street. He was there, and suddenly he wasn’t. No, it weren’t hunters.. he did not make it. He was my friend. _

_ Are your parents really your parents? _ Her breath was sweet and her hand steadying.  _ Are you planning to go back?  _

This game of questions wasn’t easy.

Their arrangements were not permanent.

_ She will leave. _

It started with Lydia coming to Beacon Hills and it ended with her leaving.

It wasn’t as easy as she would have liked, trying to cross. It wasn’t Samhain or Lughnasadh; she was not supposed to take that walk. This is where Peter came into play; he knew how to get her _there_ and said to better make her way back to them. This is not what she expected to hear from him, but is welcomed all the same.

Her journey was many things, and all of them were whispered only in their bed, pressed into her skin.

Lydia was absent for three months and three blackthorn trees is what they plant near the crossing place, next to the lake.

It’s fitting the way she died, the way she came back to her.

It’s sweet the way Cora makes her bleed to make sure she’s real, and then devours her with urgency.

She’s not safe, not _from_ or _to _them; but she’s herself.

And that had to be enough.


End file.
